Only two Ferraris and a Bentley, none of them occupied, sat parked outside the hotel as his driver braked at the entrance.
As Boucher wandered through the lobby, he noticed few guests. The weather and the bombings must have chased the rich elsewhere, he thought. At the threshold to his favorite bar, he gazed around. His anxiety that undercovers were somewhere made him long for the comfort of friends. He saw no one he knew, meandered into a restaurant, realized he hadn’t any appetite, and drifted outside. He detected no car of similar outline that had earlier followed. Place Vendôme appeared deserted. He must have imagined that threat. Or had he? This damn fog! It had thrown up a wall that obscured, that made judging difficult. One never quite knew what lay beyond.
The plaza’s misty splen
